


#tw: tr9ll 6reeding

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Threesome, internalized prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need to—" you can't, you can't say it with Mituna there. "It's my mutation," you say instead. "There are complications."</p><p>"Okay, dude, open the door," Latula says. The knob rattles, and you miss whatever Mituna says next. "Yeah, I know, but he's still one of us. We can't just let him suffer, you know?"</p><p> </p><p>  <i>(Kankri misses a social outing. Some of his friends come to check up on him.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	#tw: tr9ll 6reeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SybLaTortue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybLaTortue/gifts).



> For Syb's prompt requesting involuntary arousal (sex pollen, going into heat, etc) causing Kankri to break his chastity vow, with Latula and Mituna's help.
> 
> "Internalized prejudice" tag for Kankri having accepted a lot of Beforan culling bullshit about his mutation and his personhood.

You wake up too hot, your skin tender to the touch. You drag yourself to the ablutionblock to splash cold water on your face and for a few seconds you feel dizzy. You stare at yourself in the mirror. The crimson of your eyes is still strange, after you accustomed yourself to the blankness of death for so many subjective sweeps. It's made worse by the darkening of your skin, nearly adult black after this last season. It doesn't look right. You were used to your wiggler shade.

Perhaps more thorough ablutions will help shake off this discomfort. You strip off your sleepwear and step into the trap. The water is cold when you first turn it on, a bracing shock to the system, but it warms quickly. The hivestem complex where you live now is populous enough that it comes equipped with a plentiful hot water supply.

The alarming sensitivity to your skin is more obvious with the water beating down on you. Trolls are supposed to become _less_ sensitive as they mature, not more. You wet down your hair and work foaming cleanser into it.

When your knuckles bump one of your horns, your knees nearly give out. Another wave of dizziness overcomes you as heat drops palpably through your body, rushing from your head and thorax to pulse between your legs. You use some very problematic language as parts of your anatomy swell, but your body is insistent, even when you twist the water all the way to cold again. Your bulge avoids the frigid assault, but your nook is undeterred.

You rush through your ablutions, since the water isn't helping you feel better and touching yourself is making the process worse. By the time you towel off, there's a visible smear of pink between your thighs.

You mince uncomfortably back out to the main block of your little clusterhive, trying not to let anything rub against anything else. You're in the middle of retrieving leggings from your wardrobifier when you realize what's happening to you.

You are, as the counselors at the culling center explained to you when you were younger, an evolutionary throwback; your off-spectrum color is a marker of deeper aberration. You express genes that have long since disappeared from most bloodlines, genes that were useful to your race before you managed to accomplish a symbiotic relationship with what are now mother grubs and lusii. What's happening to you now is a result of maturing far enough for the entirety of your mutation to become clear: you've reached breeding age, and your body is ready to be inseminated.

There's no way you can attend tonight's social gathering now. You manage to put on a t-shirt and a pair of underwear, though even that much cloth against your skin is uncomfortable. Then you send a brief message—only a few hundred words—to tell Porrim and Latula that you won't be able to attend this evening and you're terribly sorry. After _that_ , you look up medical clinics with a Beforan approach. They should be able to prescribe some hormone suppressants that will stop this from happening to you again.

...You can't go to the clinic until you've weathered this instance, you realize. If you go out in public like this, you'll have no way to resist the advances of any troll who took an interest in you. And they _would_ , you know that; you had it drilled into your thinkpan quite thoroughly that you would trigger primitive urges in anyone exposed to you. Any strange troll who happened upon you in this state would feel the compulsion to breed you. That's a horrifying thought, but it makes your nook ache and your bulge swell. To have this hunger sated, this empty feeling replaced with fullness—you can only imagine it in the vaguest of terms. You've never even made a habit of masturbation.

You have ample time to regret that decision, and to wish you'd had more foresight when you first revived. There were so many things to think about, so many things that had changed—it was entirely too easy to forget about the problems of your old life. And now you're paying the price. 

The next few hours are some of the worst you've spent since you revived. Nothing holds your attention for long except the throbbing heat in your genitals, and you wish you could _stop_ paying attention to that. What if you had showed up to the gathering before this manifested? What if it came on in a room full of all your acquaintances? What if they gave you what your body craves right now? Why can't you stop thinking about it?

The knock at the door snaps you out of that vicious cycle. You've been in a fugue state, trying to keep your hands out of your underwear, for... hours, according to your husktop. A half-finished comment to a problematic news article is probably entirely obsolete by now. Whoever is knocking at the door seems disinclined to stop; you should at least tell them to go away so they don't aggravate your neighbors unduly.

You're shaking as you cross to the door, and you don't let yourself touch the lock. "I'm not well enough for company," you say loudly. The knocking stops.

"What's wrong, dude?" Oh god, that's Latula. Of all the people to come investigate... "You sounded hella out of it when you ditched. Me and Pornstar figured somebody ought to come check on you."

You can't imagine that nickname was applied consensually. "Is—is Porrim with you?"

"Naw, we flipped a coin for it," she says. You can't decide if that makes it better or worse. "You gonna gimme the deets here?"

"I'm—" your voice cracks. You sag against the door. If you let her in, she'll spread your legs, fill you up, satisfy this need... "I should warn you the explanation is unsavory and potentially triggering."

There's a nasty, sniggering laugh you recognize as Mituna's. "That's never stopped you before," he says. You think that's what he says. He's never entirely coherent. You should be repulsed by the idea that he's here, but instead of comfortably chilly disdain for him you feel hot, hungry loathing.

"I need to—" you can't, you can't say it with Mituna there. "It's my mutation," you say instead. "There are complications."

"Okay, dude, open the door," Latula says. The knob rattles, and you miss whatever Mituna says next. "Yeah, I know, but he's still one of us. We can't just let him suffer, you know?"

You sob. Your hand is on the lock somehow, though you don't remember putting it there.You can smell something tantalizing and wonderful and you wonder if it's her, even through the closed door. It makes you feel flushed and hot, desperate for touch. You can't be held responsible for this; didn't the culling specialists at the clinic always say that? You're defective, incapable of restraint when your primitive biology drives you. You hate yourself for clinging to that assurance as your shaking fingers turn the lock and the deadbolt slides back.

The scent washes over you as the door opens, and you chirr helplessly. The burst of heat between your legs is a fresh gush of fluid from your nook, and blood rushes to your face in mortification. Latula and Mituna come inside, and Mituna takes a deep, noisy breath.

"Fuuuuck, what are you sick with?" he asks. "Nooksquirting fever?"

"I do _not_ have to put up with that sort of language from you," you say hotly, "no matter how damaged you—"

He kisses you then, rough and wet, without even taking off his helmet.

Latula laughs. "Wow, Tuna, rude!" She pulls him off you and you lean after him for a moment before you catch yourself. "Sloppy makeouts are a no-helmet sport."

"Sorry," he says. You never believe he really means that, but right now you don't care, because Latula has stepped between you and is staring at you like you're some sort of particularly delectable prey. 

"Seriously, though, there's something weird going on here. I can taste it in the back of my throat, like...." She leans in and licks your jaw, and another animal sound escapes your throat. "God, it's you," she says. "You're _delicious_."

"Please," you choke out as she licks your skin again. Your bulge swells and unsheathes, tangling in the fabric of your underwear.

Mituna steps up behind you. "Since you ask so nicely," he says. Then he bites your nape.

You shudder all over, sagging against Latula as heat washes over your skin. You cling to her jumpsuit as if she could anchor you somehow, and she lets you, and there are gloved fingers running up the back of your thigh. Your hips rock toward the touch, and when those fingers press against the lips of your nook through the sopping fabric of your underwear, you whine.

"It's okay, babe, we got you," Latula says. One of her hands goes up under your t-shirt and you let go of her long enough to help pull it off. She brushes your grubscars, strokes the softness of your belly, and that means it's Mituna who's pulling your underwear off. His fingers slip between your thighs again when you're naked, and you widen your stance but he doesn't push in, despite how acutely your nook aches for it.

"You're on fire down here," he says, as if you didn't know. "Good thing I got a fucking hose."

"You're disgusting," you tell him, squirming against his hand as he palms your nook. You're so empty it hurts, weak-kneed and getting dizzy again as your body pleads for fulfillment.

Latula looks past you for a moment, which means the raised eyebrow is for Mituna. Then they're both sinking to their knees on the carpet, pulling you with them. Latula tugs down the zipper on her jumpsuit and you lean forward, nuzzling between her rumble spheres to breathe in the amazing musk of her skin. Your back arches instinctively, presenting your inflamed nook like the desperate animal you are.

"Aw yeah, prime scoring position," Mituna says. You can hear his zipper coming open, too. The smell of his musk gets sharper, more enticing, the scent of his unsheathed and ready bulge. Your own thrashes between your thighs, and you're afraid if you try to speak you'll beg. He settles a hand on your hip.

His bulge slides into you in one slow, unstoppable motion, stretching the entrance to your nook, lighting up unfamiliar nerves—it's a shockwave of raw, overwhelming relief, radiating out through your whole body. You can't remember why you were afraid of this, when it makes you feel _right_ all the way down to your bones. Mituna's bulge squirms in your nook and you cling to Latula, chirring with primitive need.

It becomes your whole world, the stretch and coil and shift inside you, the craving for just a little more, a little deeper. They're talking to each other, you think; you can feel the vibrations in Latula's thorax but you can't spare the attention to follow words. There's a spot deep inside you that Mituna brushes on some strokes, and you wish he would do it more. You're not even sure if it feels _good_ , but its strangeness is compelling. You shift your weight, trying to chase the pressure, trying to figure out why you need it so much.

Then that spot _gives_ as his bulge presses it directly, and you cry out. He groans, his hips tight to your glutes, and his bulge ripples without pulling back. Your nook clenches around him, pleasure drawing up and into your core.

"Holy _shit_ ," Mituna says, when the tremors inside you have stilled at last. "Sex out of six, would bone again."

"How about you?" Latula asks, running her fingers through your hair. When you look down you can see her bulge shifting inside her jumpsuit. You nod frantically. The urge to be taken is less painful now, but no less insistent.

Mituna pulls out and the emptiness of your nook makes you whimper. "Think you can beat my high score?"

Latula grins, tugging her zipper down the rest of the way. "Babe, I'm going to _rock_ this level."

She helps you sit up, guides you into her lap still trembling, and fills you as you sink down. Her bulge isn't quite as thick as Mituna's, you don't think, but there are ridges along one side of it that you can feel as they rub against your flesh. You wrap your arms around her neck and hold on, trilling softly. 

"Dang, that's good, babe," Latula tells you, her breath against your ear. "You feel so crazy good right now." You nod, shivering at the twist of her bulge.

"Heh, you think that's good," Mituna says, "wait till you come." He presses up behind you again, bare skin against your back this time. "Fuckin magic nook just sucks it right up." His hand slides around to your lower belly, splaying across your skin possessively. "Still got me right here."

Latula moans and it's the most beautiful sound in the universe. "That is _so hot_ ," she says. "Gonna take mine too, Kan? Keep a little bit of me up inside?"

You nod, struggling to make a sound more coherent than your needy chirrs. _They're breeding you_ , and you can't separate the coil of shame from the thrill of arousal. Mituna bites your nape again, sucking hard on the skin there, and all your muscles turn to water. It feels so possessive, so much like he's claiming you for his own. You shouldn't want that and you know it, but it thrills you all the same.

When he releases you, Latula stretches up, leaning over your shoulder, and Mituna kisses her, purring against your back. The jealousy you were expecting doesn't come: his hands are still on you and her bulge is still in you, and you're wanted here.

You roll your hips, trying to coax her into the place he reached—deep inside you, where your primitive body craves insemination. Her bulge brushes the spot and slides away, and you sob with need. You're trembling, and you still can't speak.

Latula licks your shoulder, your throat; you tip your head back for her and she croons, letting her teeth scrape your windchute so sweetly you wouldn't have believed it possible. Her bulge pulses, surges deeper into your nook and this time she finds your sweet spot. Your back arches as your nook clenches around her, and you find your voice at last: "Yes, there, please, yes," you chant, shuddering with pleasure. She's coldblooded enough that you can feel her release, the sudden tiny knot of chill low in your abdomen. Your whole body seems to contract in around it, like it's something precious you need to protect.

"Please," you say again when she starts to withdraw. You don't even know what you're asking for, not really, only that your body is still thrumming with need. "I still—I'm—"

"Haven't gotten to drain your globes yet," Mituna says. You startle; you'd almost forgotten he was there. But he slides his hand around the arch of your hip and squeezes your bulge, and you whine. You buck into his hand, but that makes Latula's bulge slip further out of your nook. 

"No, please," you say, pawing at her as she withdraws, "put it back."

She laughs breathlessly. "Babe, you gotta give me a little time to recover, it doesn't work like that."

That's not fair, when you still need it so much. They can't be done with you. You look back over your shoulder, wild-eyed, desperate. "It's called a refracturey period," Mituna says. "If you can't handle it, you can fuck yourself."

You snarl in frustration, even though his hand on your bulge still feels good.

"You know," Latula says thoughtfully.

Mituna laughs his hideously aggravating laugh. "Are you thkinking what I'm thinking?"

"Go for it," Latula says. She presses your thighs apart, helps you rise up on your knees, and you're whimpering at the throbbing emptiness between your legs, the way it's worse when you're so aware that she's watching her matesprit handle your bulge.

He coaxes it down between your legs as you tremble at the touch, the way he strokes you, encouraging your bulge to extend to its full length. He pushes the tip into your own nook and you yelp, but it feels _good_ and your body doesn't care if it's proper. Your bulge burrows deeper into your nook and Mituna presses his hand against you to hold it there—as if you could bring yourself to take it out, when this makes pleasure double back and echo through your system, electrifying everything between your legs. He hisses little filthy things in your ear, praising you for being greedy, for being easy, for being a willing slurrypail. You can't even argue, when you're grinding against his hand and panting as you try to get deep enough to pump your own material up into the reservoir holding theirs.

Latula catches your face in her hands and kisses you, a delicate and tender series of kisses to your mouth, sweet and comforting as you surrender to all your basest impulses. You sob against her lips when your bulge slides into the tight clutch of your tender slurry reservoir. This time you can feel the fluttering clench of your nook along all the length of your bulge, drawing out your material in wrenching, wonderful pulses. You shake apart, wrecked and ecstatic with it.

By the time your climax ends, you can barely stay upright. You try to lean on Mituna and he tips you both sideways, making a crash noise as you hit the floor. Latula stretches out on your other side more gracefully. Your bulge has withdrawn from your deep reservoir, but it hasn't come free of your nook entirely, and you don't think you want it to. Not until one of them agrees to replace it with theirs, anyway, and you trill with embarrassment when you catch yourself having that thought.

"Shit, you okay?" Latula asks. "I don't even know what came over us there." She's nuzzling your shoulder as she asks, licking your skin like she's still feeling it, thank god.

"I do," you admit. "I'm—it's my mutation, I told you. I'm." The words stick in your throat and you flush hot at the idea of admitting it, but your nook still feels swollen and ready. "I'm in heat."

Mituna purrs. "How long you gonna keep wanting to ride bulge?" he asks, and Latula reaches over you to put her hand over his mouth.

"Do you want us to get out of here?" she asks. "I'm really really sorry about busting in like that and just pouncing all over you, like, way to be not cool, us, and you still taste _so fuckable_ but I think I could drag Tuna out of here if we gotta let you be...."

"Don't leave," you croak. "I'll _die_ if you leave now," which might not be actually true but certainly feels that way. Already you want to spread your legs for one of them to take you again, fresh arousal sparking through your limbs. The idea of facing the rest of this alone, for however many nights it lasts, brings tears to your eyes.

They look at each other. "Sex murders are bullshit," Mituna says.

"Right on," Latula says, and then pulls her hand away from where it was creeping up your thigh, sharply like she's just realized she was doing it. You whine. "Ok, while my thinkpan's still firing on one or two cylinders, I'm gonna call the grocery drones, cause we're going to need like a zillion protein shakes here."

"You rock," Mituna says. He rolls on top of you as Latula goes in search of her clothes. "And _you_ are in double trouble now." He grins down at you, showing off all his dentition. "You've never let anybody eat your nook, huh."

You spread your legs wide enough that he fits between them, arch your hips in an instinctive search for friction. "That's about to change, isn't it."

"Aw yisss." _Yishth_. You can't find the will to mock him for that. He licks his way down your thorax and settles between your legs, and you surrender.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with illustration by mcsiggy! [Mituna putting his hose to good use](http://twinksandboobs.tumblr.com/post/109730773313/some-kanmitulas-inspired-by-this-story), mmmm. (nsfw, obviously!)


End file.
